When my wife and best friend, Marijana, died after a short but intense fight with Glioblastoma Multiforme (a very aggressive brain tumor), a lot of unfinished paintings, poetry and stories died too. Such a tragedy. But she faced death with such calmness and dignity that it inspired everyone close to her. What a girl. It must have been the Viking genes in her ancestry shining through.

The day after she left this life I wrote a little story and sent it to some of our friends, simply to vent some of the grief I experienced. However, I received so much feedback that I decided to repeat it here. I have taken some liberties with the details of her voyage, just because I have such fond memories of the mail-ship era.

Some readers might not be familiar with the vessels I am describing, but many of the older folks will remember the Royal Mail Ships that sailed between the UK and South Africa. From Southampton they would make their first landfall at Cape Town, and then proceed to Port Elizabeth, East London and Durban before returning to the UK. I grew up in East London during the 50s and 60s and can vividly remember Union Castle ships such as the RMS Windsor Castle, Pendennis Castle and Transvaal Castle calling at the local port.

East London has the only river harbor in South Africa, and in order to make it navigable and prevent a built-up of sand at the entrance (apparently one could cross in an ox-wagon at low tide during the early 1800s) they dredged the entrance and built a large breakwater on the seaward side, and a shorter pier in the landward side (do a Google Earth if you can). This makes entering and leaving quite tricky for large ships, hence the port has a resident pilot to steer the ships in and out.

One can watch the ships leaving either from the quayside, from the pier, or from the adjacent Orient beach (named after the Russian sailing ship that ran aground there in 1907 on its way to Australia).

One more thing…those perfect afternoons. I’m sure they are not unique to East London, but I’ve spoken to several people who are familiar with them. Typically in March and April, one would encounter an ‘Indian Summer’ with balmy afternoons, neither hot nor cold, hardly a cloud in the sky, and not a breeze moving. I can recall many a Friday afternoon after school when I would lie on my back on the back lawn of my parents’ home, just watching the clouds or the odd small plane flying overhead.

It was on such a perfect afternoon that Marijana left…
——
In July 2010, after discussing a very distressing MRI scan result with her neurologist, showing a 2-inch tumor in the left parietal lobe of her brain, we realized that she might have to embark on this adventure; traveling to the ‘other land’ to visit so many of her beloved friends and family, such as her late dad, her beloved ‘Ouma Granny’, and others that she had not seen for some years. And so, on that perfect cloudless Friday afternoon, I drove her to the quayside at East London where the Windsor Castle was moored.

We checked in her baggage and then there was the usual embraces, cuddles, whispering sweet nothings, and promises, and I held her close to me until they were preparing to raise the gangways. Now I had to let her go on board. Half-way up the steps she hesitated for a few seconds, turned half-way around and briefly looked at me as if she still wanted to tell me something (maybe wanting to remind me to look well after all the animals at home); but then she continued up the steps and disappeared into the ship.

A few minutes later she emerged on the lower passenger deck amidst the hundreds of other passengers. Like everyone else she tossed me a colored streamer, and by a sheer fluke I managed to grab the other end. And there we stood…two soul-mates connected with a simple piece of crimson crinkle paper. Just like all the other passengers and well-wishers on the quayside. She was radiant, looking more like an excited schoolgirl rather than a mature woman. The reddish curly hair that she hated so much (and I always thought to be sexy) and the little blue dress with the while collar.

We seemed to stand there for ages, then the crew with their thick leather gloves started slipping the mooring ropes off the bollards and the two steam-driven tugboats, one at the bow and one at the stern, gave full power and started pulling the grand old lady of the seas away from the quayside. The red crinkle paper streamer between us grew taut, and snapped.

After fifty yards or so the tugs stopped, cast of their ropes, the water at the Windsor Castle’s stern started churning and the massive piece of steel came into motion, with some Phillip Sousa march music playing over the loudspeaker system. I waved and waved until I could see Marijana no longer; then started running around towards the Orient Beach to catch another glimpse of the departing vessel.

The ship moves much faster than I can, so I was not in time to see transfer of the pilot, but I could hear the deafening roar of the big ship’s horn and the “whoop, whoop, whoop” of the pilot boat as the two vessels parted ways, the smaller boat made a u-turn, and returned to port. As a reached the beach I could still see the Windsor Castle’s stern, but she was now quite some distance away. I stood there for about half-an-hour, until I could see her no more.

By now dusk had set in, and there was this indescribable blue-and-purple haze on the Eastern horizon where the ship had disappeared. I clambered on to the rocks, and just stared at the sea. This amazing piece of water, that’s been there for billions of years. And will be for as many, I guess. A terrible sense of melancholy, of loss, of emptiness, overcame me.

Then I realized that neither the Windsor Castle, nor Marijana, were really gone. I just could not see them. That ship was still afloat in all her greatness, all 38,000 tonnes of her. At that moment people were sitting down for cocktails and preparing for dinner, and at the next port of call people would watch the her docking and someone would say; ”Hey, there’s Marijana!!”

Just as we humans cannot see more than 13.4 billion light years (in any direction) into an apparently limitless Universe simply because of limitations in our technology, or see a ship beyond the horizon simply because of the curvature of the earth, death is horizon beyond which we cannot see simply because of limitations in our senses. So Marijana is not truly ‘gone’. I just cannot see her due to the constraints of my present existence.

And so all I, as a human being, can do in the meantime is to try not to miss her too much, continue with this life as best I can, and find comfort in continuing and finishing some of the tasks we started together.

And at some point in the future I’ll just have to do that same trip. I’m sure she’ll be waiting on the other side. Same smile. Same curly hair. Maybe even the blue dress as well.

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